Double Dutch
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: A random definition leads to word play, then semantics, apologetics and a weird and wonderful hypothesis. One-off and kinda fun.


**Double Dutch**

_Thanks to Wikipedia. I had no clue…  
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There was no denying it. Closing a case felt good. It didn't really matter how brutal the case - murder was murder after all - but the fundamental feeling of doing your job, putting a 'bad guy' behind bars, bringing a perpetrator to justice, somehow it made the world feel a little less rotten, a little more fair. And to have played even a small part in putting together the puzzle of motive, method and opportunity, it was viscerally very satisfying. A job well done.

And then, of course, there were the donuts.

"Well done, people," said Lisbon, leaning in the doorway of her office as she took another bite of her maple glazed donut. "Minnelli will be proud. Swift, accurate, discreet."

Rigsby chomped into a jam-buster. "Open and shut."

"Slam-dunk," said Cho, his fingers hovering between the double chocolate and the walnut crunch.

"Double Dutch," added Van Pelt. She was peeling the icing of her frosted crème. There was silence in the office as they all stopped to look at her. Quickly, she glanced up, apologetic. "Uh – I'm sorry. I - I couldn't think of anything else to say. It…it just came out."

"What does that mean anyway? _Double Dutch_…" Rigsby again, his upper lip coated in icing sugar. "I mean, is it really Dutch?"

"It's a skipping game," she answered. "Jump rope. We used to play it at home."

"But what does it mean?"

"I don't know…" she muttered, stumped.

Cho shrugged as well.

For some reason, they all looked to the couch, where Patrick Jane lay dozing, crumbs from an Old-Fashioned Plain dotting his waist-coat.

"Well, kids, time for some Social Studies. Historically, the English used to hold the Dutch in low regard, due to hostilities between their two countries during the 17th century. There are several incidences in the English language that use the phrase "Dutch" as an adjective, none of them particularly flattering."

"Dutch treat," said Cho, fingers nearing the walnut-crunch.

"I'm Dutch," said Van Pelt.

"Really?" asked Rigsby.

"_Double_ Dutch could also refer to the harshness or near incomprehensibility of the Dutch language to the English ear. Speaking 'Double Dutch' would be referring to something twice as hard to understand."

"Wow. Learn something new everyday," said Rigsby. "Van Pelt is Dutch."

"Of course," purred Lisbon, her trademark half-smile tugging into her right cheek. "He could be making all this up. We'd never know."

Jane grinned broadly, but did not open his eyes.

"Going Dutch," said Cho. _Back to the double chocolate._

"That means the same thing as Dutch Treat," growled Van Pelt.

"Dutch oven," said Cho. _Nope, the crunch._

Silence again.

"What is a Dutch oven?" asked Rigsby.

Van Pelt smirked. "Ben Price would know…"

The room burst into laughter. Ben Price had been the victim in this latest case, a 38 year old "House Husband", whose CEO wife had killed him for the insurance money. It had been fairly "open and shut" as Rigsby had truthfully announced, but the team had been unwilling to believe that any all-American, red-blooded, football-watching male could possibly endure a life as a stay-at-home dad, and it had led to wild theories being tossed around about Ben's "secret life", at Ben's posthumous expense. The "open and shut" case had dragged on for almost a week because of it.

Of course, Patrick Jane had been the only one who had vouched for him.

Jane sighed. "A Dutch oven is in fact a cast iron pot with a tightly fitting lid –"

"Shut up, Jane!" Several voices at once.

He shrugged, eyes still closed. "Makes good stew."

"Right." Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Like you've made stew."

"I have."

"Really."

"Really. I have."

"Really."

"Stew, soup, bread, quiche, you name it. I even made my own linguine noodles on several occasions. Nothing beats fresh noodles."

The team exchanged glances.

"You cook?" Van Pelt this time.

"Love to. It's very therapeutic."

Rigsby shifted in his seat. "You honestly believe that a guy like Ben Price, a senior quarterback and part-time goalie, could honestly be happy to let his wife go make the bucks and he stays home and makes the bread?"

"I do."

"You do?"

"I do."

"Well, I don't. I couldn't. Most men just couldn't. Cho?"

"Nope." He plucked the walnut crunch from its box.

"Van Pelt?"

She scowled darkly. "I'm not a man."

Poor Rigsby. He almost fell out of his chair. "No, no, nonono sorry, that's not what I meant…"

"Forget it." Sneering, she shoved the last of her donut into her mouth and chewed. Loudly. Mouth open. Manly.

Lisbon grinned again. "But you could, Jane?"

"Absolutely." He finally opened his eyes and rolled up to a sitting position on the brown couch. "Why is that so threatening?"

"It's not threatening," moaned Rigsby, certain he would never ever succeed in getting a yes from Van Pelt now. "It's just…it's just…"

"Wrong," said Cho, putting the crunch back and picking up the chocolate.

"Yeah, wrong!"

Jane cocked his head. "Why? It's statistically proven that children thrive when a parent is home for the first five years of life –" He held up both hands at the sounds of protest. "Just stating well-documented facts. No condemnation, no judgments…"

Lisbon snorted.

"…And," he continued. "If a woman's gifts, career and desires enable her to provide a financially healthy living for her family, why should a male ego get in the way?"

She narrowed her green eyes. "Because a male ego _always_ gets in the way."

Jane grinned.

Van Pelt leaned forward, intrigued. "So, Jane, are you saying that if you ever got married again –"

"I won't."

"But if you did..."

"I won't."

"But if you did," she made sure there was no room for interruption this time. "That you would stay at home with the kids."

He stared at her for a long moment, the smile starting to play about in his eyes now, sensing a very good game coming on.

"Okay," he started. _"If_ I ever got married again, which I won't, but for the sake of argument, I will agree to the hypothesis in principle. _If_ I ever got married again, and _if _we were to have children, and _if _my wife wanted to continue working because that was a fulfilling life choice for her, then yes, yes I most certainly would stay home with the kids. I would…yes, absolutely. Without reservation." He was nodding now, as if warming to the thought.

Silence again the in office, everyone to his own thoughts.

Rigsby shoved another whole donut into his mouth and chewed loudly, deep in thought. Van Pelt rolled her eyes. _Men._

Jane's gaze danced from face to face, savouring their reactions. He just couldn't leave it alone.

"For example, say I were to marry Lisbon –"

The coffee had just hit her lips when it came back out in a violent spray across the room. Rigsby began to gag on the icing sugar. Van Pelt's laugh burst out in such an unfeminine manner that she clapped her hands over her mouth in fear. Cho dropped the chocolate and pushed the box of donuts away.

"Yes, why not?" Jane's eyes were dancing wickedly now. Four buttons pushed simultaneously. This was very good. "It is just a hypothesis, after all, now isn't it?"

"Yeah, thanks," Lisbon wiped the coffee from her lips and scowled at him. "Me getting married is just a hypothesis."

Jane leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "Think about it. Deep down, our dear Senior Agent Lisbon _does_ want to get married. Of all the professional women I know, she is the least skeptical of the institution of marriage. She never degrades it, never makes pointed jokes about married couples, married life, etc., leading me to assume she actually had a relatively stable marriage modeled for her by her parents, before the accident of course, or by other significant adults during her childhood and deep down, although she is set on following her career path, she would at some point like it to include the possibility of marriage."

Lisbon said nothing, her face frozen in its scowl.

Van Pelt frowned. _"I_ want to get married someday…"

Rigsby's eyes slid over to her, then back to his desk.

Jane went on. "But motherhood? That is another story entirely. It often comes unexpectedly, so many women aren't prepared for the demands of literally putting your life on hold to tend to the vast physical and emotional needs of a child. It is often seemingly mundane, unrewarding, tedious and unfulfilling to her own needs as a woman, especially one that has achieved personal and professional success in her career."

He looked over at Lisbon, smiling his most charming smile. "Now, Lisbon here is a great detective, tireless, intrepid and relatively intuitive –"

"Gee, thanks." Her smile was acid.

"But she is hard-nosed, driven and anal-retentive. Not the best motherhood material."

Cho stood up quickly. "I have to leave. I have a…thing…" He grabbed his jacket and swiftly exited the room. Van Pelt and Rigsby exchanged looks.

"Whereas I," said Jane. "Am perfect for staying at home."

"You're perfect," repeated Lisbon.

"For staying at home," corrected Jane.

"Okay, Prince Charming. Sell me."

Rigsby shot out of his chair. "I forgot. I - I have a thing too…"

"With Cho?" Van Pelt smirked.

"Uh yeah. A football guy kinda…duh, a man thing." And he too snatched his jacket and beat it for the door.

Van Pelt snorted and leaned forward, slipping a pencil between her teeth, fascinated.

Jane leaned backward, stretched his legs out toward his boss, slipped his arms behind his head. He was enjoying himself.

"Well, for starters, the wedding would be small."

"Why?"

"Because I have no family to speak of, and yours, well, your brothers just wouldn't approve."

She grinned. "You're probably right."

"Well, yes. I'm always right. So the wedding would be small, which would be nice. Perhaps your sister-in-law would be your maid of honour. Or perhaps Van Pelt."

"Oh blue, please. Can I wear something blue?" Van Pelt was biting her lip in excitement.

"Sure," said Lisbon. "Whatever you want."

Jane went on. "But the honeymoon would be short, because you would need to get pregnant right away."

Her laugh sounded like a cough. "C-oh really? Why?"

"Because of your advancing years. The incidences of Down's Syndrome and other genetic birth defects increase exponentially after the age of 35."

"Oh."

"So, if we wanted healthy kids, we would naturally do everything in our power to increase their odds. So likely before the year was out, you'd be giving birth to a child."

Her grin tugged into her cheek. "Boy or girl?"

"Genetically it's 50/50. I've already thrown a girl, so let's say he's a boy. Our first child would be a boy."

"Aaawwww…" Van Pelt put her chin in her hand. "That's so sweet. A little baby boy…" She was in her happy place.

Lisbon smiled with her eyes this time. "What's his name?"

Jane thought for a moment. "Graeme. Graeme with an 'e'. Graeme Christopher William. But we will call him Christopher."

"I love it."

"Yes. He would have dark curly hair and green eyes."

"Yes."

"We would need to plan the second. Most people have a second child in two years, but developmentally, that's not the best for the first child. They're just heading into the "terrible twos", with separation anxiety and self-identity issues at their peaks. So, either baby number two comes soon, within a year or 18 months afterwards, or later, say 2 ½ or 3 years."

"How would we choose?"

"Depends on how hard we tried." His grin was wicked now.

Van Pelt giggled.

Lisbon's grin matched his. "Soon, then. Let's say soon."

"Perfect. So now we have a little girl – again with dark curly hair but blue eyes this time."

"Nice. And her name?"

"Robyn Elizabeth…Grace."

Van Pelt clapped her hands. " I can be her god-mother!"

Lisbon smiled. "I love the name Robyn."

"So, you will come to work, here, every day…"

"And you'll stay home with the kids."

"I will."

"Will you cook?"

"Of course."

"And clean?"

He gazed off as if considering. "To the best of my ability. I'm not good with furniture. We should think about a part-time housekeeper."

She nodded. "Okay. I can live with that. I would have only one stipulation."

"Excellent, Lisbon! And that would be…?"

"That you would give up your obsession with finding Red John."

Like a popped balloon, silence fell upon the room.

Jane sighed, sat up, ran his hand over the back of his neck. He frowned, sighed a second time, wrung his hands together in thought.

"It's a reasonable request," said Lisbon. "You would have a wife and two children. Would you still be consulting for the CBI? Or only for Red John cases? How would that tie in with your selfless desire to stay home with your kids? Would that be putting them in danger? And how would it be if you did kill Red John? You would have to go to prison. No getting around it, is there? You would need to put the needs of your new family over the need to avenge your first. I don't think you could do that."

She cocked her head. He made a face, leaned back on the couch, wrung his hands again.

"Do you think you could do that, Jane?"

Van Pelt's eyes, worried now, flicked back from Jane to Lisbon and back again. Jane was clearly uncomfortable, tsking and sighing and not knowing what to do with his hands. Lisbon folded her arms across her chest, right eyebrow arched, waiting.

Finally, Jane huffed. "It's a reasonable request."

"Yes, it is."

He sat forward, shaking his head. "I don't know if I could do it."

And Lisbon looked over at Van Pelt with an air of triumph. "Well, seems we found the fatal flaw in your hypothesis, Jane."

He glanced up at her, eyes recalcitrant but unapologetic.

"As I said, earlier," Lisbon grinned. "Male ego _always_ gets in the way."

She grabbed her jacket and threw it over her shoulder. "Good night, Grace. Good night, Jane." And with that, she swung out of the room.

Jane sat quietly for several long moments, hands folding and unfolding between his knees. He looked up at Van Pelt, curiously. "That didn't go very well, did it?"

"Nope," she stood and pulled her things together. "Face it. You almost had it. You had three men on base at the bottom of the ninth. You needed a home run, but she threw you a curve ball and you choked. You're a man. It's not your fault. It's just your DNA. G'night, Jane." And she followed her boss out of the room and into the night.

Jane sighed, then huffed one last time.

"Double Dutch," he muttered, before stretching back out on the couch for the night.

_**The end**_


End file.
